


certain facts, stripes and plaids

by iridescentglow



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:05:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridescentglow/pseuds/iridescentglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not a relationship if you're not having sex. Right? Fairytales, games, crossed wires...</p>
            </blockquote>





	certain facts, stripes and plaids

**1.**

Gabe has five years on William—a fact which he never really considered, because _fuck knows_, Gabe still feels like he's 21 most days. When Gabe Saporta first met William Beckett, he felt like he was looking in a mirror. Admittedly, it was one of those enchanted mirrors, like in fairytales, that magically transformed him into a skinnier version of himself with better hair and a fondness for one particular plaid shirt. The first time he partied with William, they did shots and then danced to Billy Idol's 'Dancing With Myself'. Gabe can't remember laughing as hard before or since. But, the point is: as similar as they might seem, he and Bill are different—and apparently Bill noticed this while Gabe was still marvelling over the fact that they could each tear through a six-pack of beer in under an hour.

It took some work, reassessing the situation between them. (It also took some subtle hints from his friends:

"He likes you, you fucking idiot!" Pete choked out.

Mikey nodded slightly as he nuzzled into the back of Pete's neck. "It is kind of obvious . . . dude," he said distractedly.)

The fact that William made a point of going home with almost every girl that Gabe set his sights on suddenly took on sinister new meaning. (On the many Mornings After, William was always thoughtful enough to call and apologize for leaving the bar or club abruptly. "But, you know, we wanted to be alone . . ." he'd sigh smugly. _Fucker_.) William's touchy-feely-ass-grabby demeanour suddenly seemed less innocent (despite his _aw shucks—me, grab your crotch? no!_ routine). As did his hissy fits anytime Gabe refused to dance with him ("but it's Madonna! Everyone likes Madonna!").

One night they stumbled back to Gabe's apartment after an evening of hardcore fucking partying. William had a flight to catch out of JFK at 7am and he insisted that Gabe be in charge of keeping him awake. As a result, they smoked a little, played video games—and then William slipped into the maudlin introspection of a sixty-year-old drunk. He told Gabe that sometimes he hated the way he looked, but any weight he put on just didn't stick. He told Gabe that he missed his family really a fucking _lot_ when the band toured and sometimes he never wanted to leave Chicago. He told Gabe that he didn't really _enjoy_ sleeping around, even though it could be pretty fun. He told Gabe, with big, searching eyes, that _really_ he just wanted someone to _connect_ with. And then he passed out.

Gabe thought, _shit_. He looked over at William, who was snoring like a baby elephant, his limbs splayed across the floor. He thought, _what kind of game are we playing?_

*

 

**2.**

The trouble was, William seemed infuriatingly unwilling to actually _act_ upon any of his feelings for Gabe. He kept waiting for William to make his move. Time passed, William continued to snatch all his potential conquests away—

"Take the blonde! The blonde has been eyeing you all night," Gabe said in exasperation. He had to lean in close to William to be heard over the thudding bassline.

William suckled at his drink. "I think I like the brunette."

"You know I was gonna go for the brunette! You fucking fucking . . ." Gabe didn't know what William was. ". . . fucking _fucker_!"

William shot him a serene smile. "What?"

—they danced, drank, laughed anytime they happened to land in the same place at the same time.

It's not like Gabe is _waiting_ for William to make his move or anything. Gabe is not gay. Not that it would matter if was, but he _isn't_. He may make his mom sad over the fact that he never calls, has no career path, a shitty apartment and a sideshow act for a group of friends. But one day he'll settle down and make her happy by bringing home a pretty brunette. (Or a blonde, if William decides to steal the brunette on that day.)

Labels are for losers, but Gabe's definitely not gay. And the fact that sometimes he jerks off while thinking about the shape of William's mouth, that doesn't mean anything. William just has a nice mouth. Is all.

*

One day, William kissed him. It was ostentatious and kind of lovely. William's fingers snuck up to his face, stroking him lightly as his lips moulded against Gabe's, tongue pushing eagerly into his mouth.

After maybe a minute, he pulled away and whispered, "Dip me."

"What?" Gabe felt punch-drunk and horny as hell. (He really needs to get some ugly friends.)

"Dip me!" William pulled Gabe's arms securely around him, his guided Gabe's hands so that they were supporting his back.

Gabe did as he was instructed, letting William fall into a low, ballroom dancing dip. They weren't exactly Fred and Ginger, but William's limbs bent beautifully. When Gabe righted William again, he couldn't resist kissing him again. There was a round of applause, with catcalls, from the gathered audience of their good-for-nothing friends (plus whoever else had wandered backstage that night).

William laughed and pulled away from Gabe. He scampered over to Tom, who pulled a twenty dollar from his back pocket. With a show of reluctance, Tom handed it over to William, who crowed gleefully.

Gabe had to force the words out of his mouth. "A bet?"

"Yeah! Easiest twenty I ever made!" William made a performance of tucking the twenty into the waistband of his ridiculously low-lung jeans.

"Shit, Gabe," Tom bellowed in mock-outrage. "Don't be so fucking _easy_."

*

 

**3.**

Gabe has five years on William. Five years of experience and wisdom. If William wanted to play _that_ game, Gabe could take him down. It didn't take long for the opportunity to arise:

They were at somebody's apartment in Manhattan. Gabe didn't remember whose place it was, but there was a party, he had a drink in his hand and a full pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Gabe knows when life is good, he is grateful for small favours—all that zen shit.

"You have a hole in your shirt!" William gestured to Gabe's shirt. He seemed about to reach out and touch him, poking his finger through the hole, but he pulled his hand back and reached instead for his drink.

Gabe looked down at the hole, pantomiming remembering. "Oh . . . yeah. Geez. That was a pretty crazy night."

William's eyes grew wide. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, a couple weeks ago." Gabe paused to light a cigarette, drawing out the anecdote. "We were fucking . . . tearing the clothes off each other. Pretty wild." He paused again. "There are other holes, places you wouldn't believe."

"Uh huh. Who was it?"

"Dude." Gabe feigned astonishment. "I know you were drinking a lot that night, but . . . wait, you _really_ don't remember?"

"What?"

Gabe reclined in his seat. He was enjoying the flashes of alternating confusion and panic on William's face. "Dude." He measured out the words, trying to sound sincere. "You and me. We fucking had sex. Lots of sex. You don't remember?"

"I . . ." William blinked rapidly. Then he saw Gabe burst into an ear-splitting grin. "You're fucking with me! You're only . . ." William hit him hard across the chest. "Asshole!"

Gabe took a long drag of his cigarette, trying not to laugh. "You should really check your drinking habits, Bill. And for the record, if we had sex, you would've remembered it."

*

William shrugged off Gabe's trick. He shouted the loudest, danced the most energetically and participated in the most ridiculous of party games (something involving drinking syrup). However, he seemed distracted and skittish for the rest of the night. Notably, it was Gabe who picked up the pretty brunette in the pink halter top.

Later that night, Gabe felt moderately bad—both because of his trick and because of his mad skills with girls that totally outstripped William's. Pink halter top was passed out next to him in bed. She was both a lot drunker and a lot crazier than Gabe had initially realized. They had neither forged a deep connection nor had particularly great sex.

Gabe reached over and grabbed his cell phone. When he'd left the party, William had been sitting, listening to a blonde in leopard print talk about her boob job. Gabe scrolled through his address book and found William's number. (It was William himself who had programmed his number into Gabe's phone, and as a result he was listed as _Bill "big feet, big ideas!" Beckett_.)

Gabe lay back and listened to the phone ring. William did not pick up.

*

 

**4.**

Gabe watched William idly from across the bar. He was drinking some ridiculous orange-coloured cocktail with a stupid name like _Connoisseur Cocksucker_ or something. They were in LA, doing stuff for Snakes On A Plane and an impromptu party had erupted in the hotel bar. (More specifically, Pete had dropped in, and where Pete Wentz went, the party tended to follow.)

"New shirt?" Gabe overhead Pete say to William.

The shirt was one of Gabe's that William had stolen out of his suitcase for reasons best known to himself. Didn't mean anything—except, obviously, that Gabe had excellent fashion sense, while William's style involved perpetually looking like he just raided Goodwill.

William shrugged. Gabe suspected Pete knew full well whose shirt it was.

"Bill, you own, like, three items of clothing total," Pete persisted. "I know that's not yours."

"Whatever. It looks good on me, don't you think?" William made a pouting, ostentatious face and waved Pete away dismissively.

*

It was much later when Pete finally cornered Gabe. Mikey was, as custom dictated, glued to Pete's hip.

"Hi Gabe." Mikey gave him a small smile. He squinted and rubbed at the bridge of nose. Gabe wondered whether it was a tic he even noticed he had.

"Hey Mikes." Gabe suddenly felt very tired. He wanted to crawl into bed, sleep for a long, long time and wake up with someone wrapped around him. He frowned and added, with a sardonic bite, "Wentz."

"Any particular reason Bill is modelling your wardrobe?" Pete asked slyly.

Gabe resented Pete's perky sobriety. He glared at him.

"You know," Pete continued, "I see you two together all the time. You have a hickey from where you made out last night—"

"We were playing spin the bottle!" Gabe glared more fiercely. "I was wasted, okay?" he added defensively.

"Point is"—Pete smirked—"you two sure seem cosy. Like you're in a relationship, even. Should I expect another wedding invite soon?"

It was Mikey's turn to glare at Pete. Gabe watched as a ripple of tension rolled between them. The moment passed and Mikey's expression sank back into mild complacency tinted with only a hint of a frown. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and smiled distractedly in Gabe's direction.

"Look," Gabe said loudly, hoping to imbue his voice with a sense of finality. "Me and Bill are definitely not in a fucking relationship. We haven't even had sex!"

Pete's smirk was renewed. "Yet," he added shrewdly.

Gabe rolled his eyes and said a pointed goodbye to Mikey. He walked out of the bar and headed back to his room. The walls of the corridor tilted inconveniently as he walked, but the décor wasn't yet swimming before his eyes.

As Gabe stood waiting for the elevator to arrive he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, warm and heavy. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a familiar sleeve—familiar because it was _his_ sleeve, on the end of _his_ fucking shirt. Gabe sighed. Without meaning to, he leaned into William. He smelled distinctively Bill-like: smoke, salon shampoo and something fruity like mango or papaya. William's hair fell against his cheek. His breath was a hot tickle in his ear.

"Oh fuck," Gabe muttered. He heard Pete's voice in his head, taunting him.

_Yet_.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a misheard Andrew Bird lyric.


End file.
